An Owl's Tale
by Miss CookieBake
Summary: Set just before 'Deathly Hallows'. Hedwig looks back over her harsh life and gives an alternate look at the role of Dumbledore in events. Very angsty.


An Owl's Tale

"Hello, little bird", the old wizard cooed as he chucked me under my chin. He always called me that although, being and owl and all, I am of larger than average size for a bird- a muggle bird at any rate. I always knew I was different , but it was a long time until I realised quite how much. Snowy owls stand out amidst the black and brown hues that adorn most muggle birds, but I am also not entirely a muggle bird. I am a squib. I haven't a magical bone in my avian body, yet both my parents were phoenixes. Or so I thought. Sometimes wishful thinking is better than the truth, even if my noble spirit rebels against such notions. Yet where was this nobility I claim when I heard that greeting from the one I had known all my life? Twisted honour took its place, and the shame clashes with the triumph to rot my soul.

I have lived for nigh on seven years as the pet of one of the most famous wizards there is, and of course the most honourable- as I have had ample opportunity to observe in my service of him. And yet others held another in even higher esteem. Dumbledore, always considered the ultimate opponent of the one they call You-Know-Who. He was the first to refute such declarations, but this was not modesty. I like to think it was guilt, although all my senses scream out that it was merely a disguise to veil his ambitions. Dumbledore shattered my heart, and then he drove the shards into my very spirit with his pretence of kindness to my owner who possessed a sense of righteousness so strong yet so corruptable by a gentle mask.

It was clear to me all along. Dumbledore needed Harry to defeat Voldemort for him. His power was weakened by the chains he bore for his past ill deeds. For phonexes have laws of their own, and if you break them then you must pay the price. Why were people so quick to believe that Dumbledore was good? Yes, he battled tirelessly against the threat of Tom Riddle but a victory for the younger wizard would have robbed him of his hope of complete control over the wizarding world. Use the forces of the righteous on his foe, then the way would be clear for the tyranny of Emperor Albus. The role of headmaster was a simulcrum of his true desire to help him keep his eye on the prize.

I realise that these claims may seem fantastical. Why would anyone trust the tale of an owl? That is why I spent all these years learning to use the quill that writes the letters that I have carried: there is a chance that someone somewhere may read my story one day and the automony of Dumbledore's charade will be shaken. It is my hope that my willing destruction of my my own virtuous reputation with this tale may convince that this is not an attempt to shower glory on myself.

I was there that night. The night that the Boy Who Lived saw the spying teacher mercilessly kill his mentor. But of course he didn't. It would have been obvious to any critical view of Harry's account that Dumbledore was never hit by the death curse. Who ever heard of someone being thrown wildly into the air by the deathly green light that such a spell effects? But then people will always believe the worst of those they damn, and the best of those they hold in high esteem. Even now I can hear the soft thud of the wizard alighting on the undergrowth below the scene of his dramatic 'demise'. He stopped to draw breath as he took a moment before he would momentarily break the enchantments surrounding Hogwarts, and apparate to a hiding place to await the revenge of his death by his protege. Then his only true rival would be gone, and evil would be his domain alone.

But that was not to be.

I am doing myself an injustice. I eagerly present you with reasons to despise me and brand me a fool, yet I have not given you the cause of my allegations and my subsequent action. I said I had thought myself the child of two phoneixes. Yet there is a reason that you do not hear of such a thing. A phoenix lives for the moment as he goes through his cycle of birth to death. Immortality distracts from creation. But those I still call my parents were special. Their love surivived the many life cycles that their breed endure, and they wished for a child as a product and future recipient of their love. But they could not get what they so dearly desired.

That's where the wizard stepped in.

The two glorious golden birds stood either side of him as he pointed his wand low inside his robes and drew out a long creamy strand that he smeared upon the female whilst muttering an incantation of some kind.

This image reached me through the mind projections possible for magical birds. Even those in utter terror.

Harry's birthday was the day of my mother's death. Dumbledore wanted his daughter to be a part of his plans that she had glimsed and rejected as despicable. When his new pupil had defeated his old enemy, he would need to be disposed of in case he turned on his role model when he saw the elder wizard's true colours. I was to be trained to destroy, and be sent to guard young Harry to carry out my duty upon the downfall of the leader of the Deatheaters.

My mother confronted Dumbledore in her fiery rage. He either freed her daughter from her grisly destiny, or be burned to a cinder. It was a foolish ultimatum, and one I cannot believe she really meant due to her gentle nature. But you do not play power games with the power hungry.

The shabby Sorting Hat lay on his desk instead of on its usual shelf. This detail had been forgotten by all those who flew madly round the room in consternation at the wicked plans of this most evil of wizards.

Dumbledore had not forgotten. "Do not defy me you FREAK OF NATURE!", he roared as he grabbed the saggy object with the hand holding his wand. Incensed with rage, my mother flew in to threaten him with her sharp claws.

Oh, the innocence. Empty threats are meaningless. Dumbledore was a man of action. He reached deep inside the hat, pulled out the glinting blade of Godric Griffindor, and lopped off the head of the lady phoenix.

My father whirled down to the side of his lover and weeped the tears that always healed over the stump that fountained gilded blood. The wizard's roar of anger turned into a roar of laughter at this, and he cackly maniacly "Fool! I have been enchanting you for months when you have slept. I knew there would be a coup, and thought tears of ACID would be of help". My father drew back in horror as my mother's body corroded into a puddle on the floor. Dumbledore idly flicked his wand and muttered " before smiling serenely and leaving his office with the door sealed.

My father stayed with him. Binding the two of them together with the power that the High Order of the Phoenix (yes, that it is the true application of that name) gave as judgement for the crime against one of their own. Both weakened by the link, their's was a partnership of practicality. The tears at Dumbledore's funeral were those for one who died a long time before.

My tale is nearly at an end. War is upon us, and I can feel that death is not far off. Soon my master will be collected by his protectors, and I will be in danger of magic that I have no mastery over. I had to rely on friendly postal owls to guide me in my official duties as I did not posess that inate ability that a magical creature would have.

Nevertheless, I was fully equipped to carry out my true duty. When Dumbledore paused in his great plan, he committed a fatal error. He gave me a moment to strike. I only needed a moment. My sharp beak and terrible claws ripped him apart like butter, leaving only a mangled corpse for the Harry to find.

So that is my story. I am reconciled to my fate. Don't cry for me, I'm already dead.


End file.
